No Cross In MDB

I’m running late and Simon’s cried off as listening to his new Gong purchases so I train up and over to New Cross and amble over to the New Cross Inn which is heaving with spikey haired outsiders. And that’s just outside the pub. Inside it’s all leather bristles studs and acne. Well, not so much of the latter as back in the day cos we’ve all grown up. But it does seem like a bit of a timewarp I’ve not seen so many mohicans since Digbeth Civic Hall times or yore. I show my bar code and get my hand stamped, it’s the nearest I get to a tattoo and makes me especially conscious that I’m lacking in the skin defacement department compared to e veryone else. Squeeze to the bar trying my best not to get pushed into the already lively mosh pit that seems to be 80% of the audience. The bar is surprisingly empty, as in people not buying drinks cos they’ve all been to the offy. I shuffle towards the back and watch an excellently vibrant punk rock band who’ve obviously been plying their trade for a good few decades. The Restarts are a great three piece with a blindingly throbbing bassist / singer (the bass was throbbing, not the player) which makes me think of ditching my guitar playing and getting back into full on bassiness. The crowd love them too with a lot of surfing going on. Mind those big boots on yer head. I resist the urge to jump into the mosh as it looks a bit dangerous and I keep bruises a lot longer than I used to when a snotty nosed spotty faced punk rocker. The Restarts revitalise the punk’s not dead garage intensity of the 80s and damn good they are too. The crowd are hardly young but not many my age and I guess this is their time. After I while I spot Pete sidling through the crowd – he was two yards from where I bought my pint all the time. We escape outside to hear ourselves think and get a breather (it’s funky in there and I don’t mean that in a musical sense). Soon the band stop and everyone piles out for a smoke so Pete and I sneak in to a near empty floor and bar. Whilst sussing out the loos (cubicles with about 8 degenerates in each sniffing and giggling) Pete finds the downstairs bar which is very civilised with big cushioned near cubicles and we nurse our pints chatting boats, redevelopments and old bands. Soon the shouting begins upstairs and we venture up to the rammed again floor positioning ourselves safely away from the mayhem. A little disappointed that the balaclavaed Moscow Death Brigade have only brought two with them and no band just backing tracks. Doesn’t diminish the music though which is old school punked up politically charged rap like if the Beastie Boys were a punk band. Which yes they were so think as they crossed over and rocked the house. And this house is certainly rocking. Our Russian anti-fascist heroes are cranking up the energy and don’t seem to mind their stage being invaded by those doing a quick 1^st and 4^th fingers in the air jig and then leaping with gay abandon into the audience. At one point I swear there were more boots off the ground crowd surfing than on the ground supporting the crowd surfers. A fine sight. The crowd’s interesting too as in addition to the mohawks there’s older hippy types, dreads, a couple of skinhead girls with whispy bits around the ears and even a couple of casuals. Not sure what they made of us. Pete was definitely sporting the only puffa jacket in the place and I didn’t see anyone else in a denim jacket. Certainly not with a Ladyhawke badge on the lapel. At this time it does get a bit dangerous for me in a very dodgy situation. Not being quizzed on my badge, everyone here is live and let live even if you charge into them on the dance floor, but I go downstairs to the loo and the ceiling is bouncing up and down 6 inches at a time. I am not exaggerating. I was seriously worried that mid flow it would come crashing down and I’d have a size 10 18 hole DM come down on my head. Or worse. I could hear the basement bar’s whiskey’s jumping up and down. As I come back up a few folk are carrying a big TV screen out of the dance floor for safety. I don’t think the venue expected quite this much excitement. Pete is boiling so we troop outside which takes a while where we’re serenaded with soul and rap by a local dude and given it’s nearly 11 and it’s pretty straight up rap inside and it would take ages to get into a space we “do a Simon” and bail out for the evening. I think we’re at the end of the road where Debbie’s dad was brought up? An uneventful train ride home to Streatham Hill and so to bed. No photos as a lot of anarchists don’t like it so respect that. You missed a good un Simmo.